Dawn
by JayRain
Summary: Every story has two sides, and Morrigan's dark ritual is no exception.  She participated in the ritual because it she had a role to play; but as the day of battle dawns, she realizes things weren't nearly as clear-cut as she thought they would be.


_Dawn_

She thought she would feel something when it happened, but alas, nothing different from any time before. She rests her hands on her stomach, flat, cold, skin like porcelain. Her breasts, cool to the touch, fall slightly to the sides with nothing to support them. She closes her eyes and focuses on her body: heartbeat and pulse, normal; breath in her lungs; the small sounds of her stomach, for it is sunrise, and she is accustomed to eating breakfast first thing. There is nothing to indicate she is any different.

Though it pains her to do so, she thinks back through every step of the evening, trying to pinpoint when it happened. "You will not hate this as much as you think," she told him, and the future King scooted back against the headboard, as if he could press himself into the walls. It stung a bit, she'll not deny that. She knows she is not hideous; far from it. If anything, she is lovelier than his betrothed, and yet he can't take off his own smallclothes and cannot meet her eyes. She blew out the candle because she didn't want to see him looking at her like that.

He was not much help; she had to peel his smallclothes off by herself, had to tease his member with clever fingers and an even cleverer mouth to get a reaction from him. She placed his hands on her pert breasts. His palms were rough from constantly holding a sword, and she wondered briefly how he managed to pleasure himself with hands like that. And then dismissed the thought, because it probably rarely happened. She kissed his lips and his surprise prevented him from kissing her back. She teased his ears with her tongue, trailed her nails along his inner thigh and finally he shuddered just a bit. She worked his member with her mouth, and it was not as entirely unpleasant as she thought it might be.

When she mounted him he grunted with surprise. They didn't talk, because they both realized this was a means to an end. And yet as she rocked her hips and felt him inside of her, she was certain he was far away from this time and place. His body moved with hers, but his hands clutched the sheets. His breathing was labored, only from the intensity of the physical exertion.

She teased her own center of pleasure.

She made her own nipples perk up.

And it was all physical. No enjoyment.

At last her ministrations made her insides clench like a fist, gripping his shaft with desperation, and the hot, slick grasp of her walls made him shudder. She touched herself with more intensity, biting her lip to remain as silent as he did. He held her hips to keep her steady, and the touch of his rough hands on her smooth skin sent a shiver through her and her walls began to spasm rhythmically. The harder she pulsed the more he seemed to grow until his back arched and his hips angled and his mouth opened in a silent cry.

When he collapsed onto the bed, spent and quiet, she had to pull herself off of him. She had to roll to the other side of the bed and stare at the dark ceiling, legs sticky with seed, body slick with sweat from having to do all the work. With the fire burned to ash, she was cold and hugged the blankets to her and he made no move toward her.

Why would he? They were not lovers. They were merely finding a means to an end.

The bed shifted, but he got up. She heard the padding of his bare feet as he crossed the room. Then she heard the musical tinkle of water. The scent of soap drifted in the air and that stung even more. Surely she was not so hideous, and yet there he was, silently washing the scent of sex off of him. She heard the rustle of his clothing, then the creak of the door and she was alone.

Upon thinking back, she didn't feel anything different from any other time she's engaged in sex. And why should she have? The true magic of this union will not occur until the Archdemon is killed and Urthemiel's spirit seeks out what has begun to form beneath her smooth skin and flat muscles. She rests her hands on the area below her naval as she stares at the shadows on the ceiling. Dawn breaks with an orange glow and she knows she must go forward and face fate. Or is it chance? She can never decide.

And she must also face him. She already knows he will not meet her gaze. He probably regrets his choice, even though he has chosen to save his life. What is there to regret in that? And she was the one who helped him achieve that. Not entirely of her own volition, but she understands that she is only part of a larger whole. Just like him. Just like the hints of the babe already forming within her.

Dawn breaks and she will join this battle, but then her obligation is finished. She will play her role as she always has. They will live their lives and try to forget what's been done, and in all likelihood, try to forget her. And if they do remember her, it will be for what she did last night, not for the countless things she did leading up to it.

She sighs. She told him he wouldn't hate their night as much as he thought; what she didn't expect was that she would.


End file.
